Peter Super and the 11 Million Pack
by Errant
Summary: The first section in what promises to be a long Ratkin fic. Chapters are short. Review harshly, I need it. Go Rat!
1. Prologue

Prologue: Visions and Aspirations

The darkened shrine was quiet, not literally quiet, but spiritually so. The chaos and activity of the Nest was seemingly all consuming. It hummed and buzzed with the constant bustle of its inhabitants. They fought, argued and loved at tones and volumes that in a human habitation would be punishing. Here in the central Nest of the Red Hill Boston tribe this was business as usual, save for one. 

The room was sparse, a little corner infrequently visited by any but a few Shadow Seers. The single large round entryway gave access to the dingy space. Only two meters wide and six meters long it housed only a small low table that was scrounged from a Salvation Army thrift store. On this reject from an office fire sat the scraggly approximation of a bonsai tree. The little plant was alternately over-watered or bone dry, but it had remained in this little sanctum for years.

The only light was a construction light hanging from a hook in the low ceiling. A yellow extension cord ran out into the hall, running off to an outlet that could be anywhere in the Nest.    

            Peter Super had grown used to his home, it had been the only place he could call safe for the fast and dirty twenty years of his life, but he had very infrequently visited this little sanctuary. He sat naked with his legs crossed trying to concentrate on his own mind. In the past he had been clear, but now he avoided thinking of the past, it had brought doubt to him. This doubt almost cost him his life, and now it threatened his calling. The Knife Skulkers did not respect crisis in their ranks, they were the one's who end crisis's.

            He sat and thought and tried not to remember what happened. In this he failed, but did manage to forget the noise permeating the Nest. He twitched at the memory of blood and screams. Death and pain had never troubled him before. He has been the cause of bleeding and screaming and dying many, many times. He was good at it. He enjoyed it. 

            Suddenly he could stand no more, he had been mired in doubt and inactivity for too long. He needed to move, to run and, maybe, to escape. He had heard people say the only way to pass through such troubles was to confront them. He was a rat, he reasoned, so he didn't have to confront anything until his back was against a wall. 

            He grabbed up his clothes from by the door, he dressed and began to seek a way out. Red Hill was a warren of tunnels and chambers, literally a rat's nest. They met and ran and ended at seemingly random points. Many were too small for humans to navigate so he shifted into the form of a rat and headed for the exit. He has known this place from the day he woke from his Birthing Fevers, he was never lost here. 

            He made his way past his family. Extended, adopted and close. His parents were long gone, but everyone here was a child of Rat, and so they were related, whether they liked it or not. Sometimes they stopped and watched him, peering at his deformity. As though they might detect some further sign of weakness if they peered hard enough. He had proven them all wrong. Even the Elders, who looked down their snouts at anyone who didn't measure up to their imagined standards of Ratly perfection, had had to admit he was great at his job. Until recently, that was. 

            He was nearly to the exit when someone called his name. He recognized the voice of the Warrior who was on sentry duty. Peter felt no need to stop and talk with the hulking man, so he squeaked a quick: "I'm going out," and emerged in the night. 

            For a second he was disoriented, he had lost all track of time and had vaguely assumed it would be mid-afternoon. He stopped and looked around. No one was in sight so he shifted the shape of a human, making sure to pull the hood of his dark sweatshirt forward. He always made sure those things were covered. The curving horns that swept down towards his jaw from above and behind his ears were the mark of his parent's crime. He pondered this as he began to walk through the dark streets.

            The chilly winter avenues were far from abandoned. Here in the heart of the city you were never truly alone. Only recently had he desired anything in the way of privacy, another mark left by his trauma. He avoided anyone he saw and continued to ponder the turn his life had taken.

            It all began at birth. He had been the child of what amounted to incest. Two full-blooded children of Rat had been his parents. They had been exiled from the moment he breathed, never to meet their son, he didn't even know their names. He had been raised by the colony, put to work raising others. It had been a good life, some stared at him but only the Elders saw fit to say something.

            And say they did. The courtiers of Red Hill had had plenty to say about the deficiencies of Metis such as himself. He had quickly learned to appease them, but they never stopped, until Old Snow. Old Snow had taken the young rat under his wing, as it were. Within a few years, the boy that had been Peter Super became a Knife Skulker of no little reputation.

            He was still inexperienced, but some had whispered he had a knack unrivaled since the time of Old Snow himself. He had been on the way to glory and power, perhaps a place as an Elder. 

            But now it was all receding in the distance, a future that would never be, all because of a few poor, derelict humans. He had acted rightly, and with permission. Threats to the Nest had to be removed. He had done worse and bloodier in the past. Yet, he could not help thinking that if they had possessed homes and loved ones they might never have wandered into a place that was not meant for them.

            He saw it as the fault of Old Spider. The Weaver created and perpetuated a system that spared none. In extinguishing those few, he had been doing its work. He felt unclean, tainted like years of whispering and gossip had never made him feel. Those cruel tongues had belonged to his family. The Weaver was his hated enemy. Now he was plagued by weakness and fear, the blade trembled in his hand. He had been rendered useless.     

He looked around at unfamiliar streets. He had walked in a daze. He was downtown, where modest skyscrapers towered over him. In the past inaction and weakness would have driven him crazy, now they distracted him            

Not far away he saw an old homeless man shuddering in a doorway. The ancient bum shivered under a thin collection of newspaper leaves. Peter walked towards him, for a second he considered making this old man pay for the fate that had befallen him. The thought did not go far, no, he told himself. It would only further his complicity. 

Looking up to see the shrouded figure standing over him, the man hoarsely pushed out a mechanical: "Gotaquartermister?" Peter rifled through the pockets of his once black threadbare jeans. He didn't have much but he did have that. He handed a crumpled and dirty dollar bill to the old man. He started to murmur thanks that were just as mechanical, but Peter was in no mood to listen. Instead he crouched down beside the old man and breathed heavily on his hands. He reflected that soon he would need a pair of gloves, or he would have to wear his fur. 

He looked out at the street, by day it would be hectic with the busy folk of Boston. Now there was just himself and the old man. Two people whom, as far as most people cared, did not exist. Peter Super gazed up at the towering pillars of glass and concrete. He saw singly lit offices up in the heavens of the downtown core. Here on the main street lawyers and accountants were busily working into the night. They were securing the futures of the rich, of the system, of the Weaver.

It was then that the vision hit him.

When Mother Rat spoke there was no denying it. His mind exploded into voices and images and sounds. He felt as though he might burst from all the information coming at him at once. He could hardly make sense of it, deciphering the meaning was impossible. He lost all perception and now he was merely along for the ride. He saw figures, himself among them, sweep into a marble cavern. They were armed and intent on violence. No sooner than he registered this image it was gone. 

He thought he heard names, and places, but they were whisked away before he could remember them. He no longer knew where he was. 

At first he had simply gone rigid, then he had fallen limply to the sidewalk. His head had thumped with an evil crack that sounded of bone. The old homeless man jumped to his side arthritically. Turning Peter over he discovered the awful 'thunk' had been caused by the horn coming out of the left side of his head hitting the pavement, not his skull. Despite this encouraging discovery the old man did not stop to further minister to Peter, in fact he didn't even stop to gather his meager possessions or riffle through the unconscious man's pockets, something he had done before. He ran from the scene, fearful that the man, whom he assumed was on drugs and probably a demon of some kind, might attract the authorities. The thing he desired least was becoming embroiled in the machinations of police, ambulance technicians and satanic men. He was out of sight in less than thirty seconds after seeing Peter's horns. 

Peter remained completely oblivious to these events. His mind was awash with the revelations of the Rat Mother, She Who Brings The Birthing Plague. He was receiving none of it, but he understood the tone. Without his knowledge or consent he rose. Everything around him shifted and swerved. If he was aware enough he might have realized he was moving, but he was far too busy hearing. 

It was like when a parent yells at a child, no words are being understood, but the message is communicated loud and clear. The Rat Mother was not yelling at him, but when you are that powerful, even your whispers can cave skulls. 

Suddenly he began to grasp that his one-sided conversation was coming to an end. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, his vision ended. He was alone in his mind again and the solitude made him long for the Nest. The first thing he did was throw up, he hadn't eaten much or recently, but he was intent on trying.

Then he lifted his poor, swimming, ringing, and bashed head. It all became clear. He suddenly knew what it was he had to do. He saw an end to his crisis. 

Before him rose the towering premises of the FleetBoston Financial Corp., One Hundred Federal Street. He smiled; it was time to get back to work.            


	2. Chapter One

Chapter One: Advice and Foolish Behavior

It was later now, but Red Hill was no less loud, if anything, it had grown louder. For the first time in a week Peter listened carefully to the noise of the colony. He heard arguments and fights, scolding and screams, but he was glad to hear them. These were the sounds of a colony that was in good health. When there was tension, people and rats might argue but there was mostly silence. Except for the ultrasonic keening of rats in desperate fear for their lives. He had been through hard times here in Red Hill, famines, wars and poverty more crushing than any human economic depression, but he was glad to see Red Hill was running smoothly as he was on the verge of taking such a risk. 

            He had had visions before, snippets and glimpses of the Rat Mother's wisdom. Commandments, advice, censure; he has seen them all. There have been times where he and others have been to directed to perform seemingly meaningless tasks, only to learn that they were small wheels in a long chain of agents acting under the direct impetus of Rat. 

            Now he knew his goal, he knew his mission. Mother Rat has blessed him with the solution to his problem, he would be triumphant or he would die, but he did not plan on failing his Mother. Peter Super knew above all that he could not act alone, some would be sent to serve by his side, others he would have to pursue. One way or the other he knew that he would need help, but if there were anyone in the world he had to trust it would be a pack of rats.

            Red Hill was not luxurious. Its wealth was in the strength of its residents, not in their affluence. There were always rats out scrounging for food and supplies. Everyone looked after their needs and those of their nearest, but they all knew they could depend on each other in hard times. The tunnels were dirty and the rooms and chambers were often small and sparsely furnished. Odds and ends of mismatched furniture and other trash decorated chambers and corridors. What wasn't scrounged was stolen.

            There was no sense property. Elders and mothers took priority, after that it was every rat for himself. This was one reason why no one had anything of value, ownership was seen as a circumstantial factor to all but the most engrained human born. 

Some areas were recognized as aspect sections. The Knife Skulkers had a floating area around Old Snow, and because of their capacity and willingness to enforce punishments on any who offended them they were seen as welcome to have it. The Tunnel Runners had their map room, where Sheila Walks-In-Light, Head Scout, coordinated their reports and fresh arrivants could rest before hitting the road again. The Warriors were given clear berth around their separate maze of tunnels where the Warlord, McMaley, trained his Warriors.

Finally there was The Heart. The deepest part of the Red Hill nest. If ever Weaver spawn or Garou overran the place it would be the last rallying point. It was the most secure, the most confusing, the deepest warren of tunnels this, the largest nest of Boston, could imagine.      

The reason for this was that here were quartered the Shadow Seers and the mother rats. Here further generations of Ratkin were born. Here the Mystic and her flock of Shadow Seers and students explored the darkest mysteries of rat kind. Here the wails of holy Rapture mingled with the cries of the newborn. 

He was not unfamiliar to this area, as a young Metis he had been expected to aid in the care and tending of the young. And care and tend he had. It was here that he had first met Jane Classic. He had been there when her mother had named her, nothing more than one of a dozen blind pups. Now he ran through narrow passages on four paws intent on seeing her again.

Recently he had been mired in personal difficulties and she had been deep in instruction by Sally Wages herself. His vision had told him many things, including that he should go take her with him. 

He neared the area usually used for lessons and decided this might better be handled on two feet, so he shifted to his natural form. He felt most comfortable and best able to take on challenges of a frustrating nature when he wore the skin he had been born with. The image of a seven-foot tall beast that was a mixture of rat and human, with horns to boot, would cause humans to flee in fear (a violation of Ratkin regulations). Here it was acceptable and would help him in the struggle he knew was coming. 

Hunched over in the low corridor he began to sniff for Jane's scent. It did not take his sensitive nose long to pick up her trail. He had known she would be here, not because of information from his vision, but because she was the Shadow Seer with the most potential in all of Boston, perhaps all of the eastern United States, he thought with the pride of an older sibling. As such she was constantly down here in The Heart of the nest, learning whatever anyone would teach her. Whenever, that is, she wasn't out in the streets caring for those less fortunate.

He came to a door near the end of the corridor. Here Jane's scent was joined by the voice and scent of Sally Wages. He stood out of view in an unobtrusive manner.

"Now concentrate, the trick to this part is concentrating, all the answers lie in our blood girl." She paused as if appraising. "Harder, everything any rat has ever known is locked away in you and everyone of us." Sally Wage's tone was crueler and more pushing than any Harvard professor, so Peter had been told. He could smell the sweat of exertion, even though he doubted Jane had moved a muscle in several hours.

Not unobtrusive enough as it would prove. "Peter!" with that exuberant cry Jane's pink form collided with him in a bear hug. And a bear hug it was, despite that he was almost two feet taller than her in this shape. She was in her human form, and quite naked at that. He had never acquired the squeamishness for nudity some human born seemed to have, but neither did he have the total disregard rat born had. Jane was one of the latter and saw no problem with walking around naked if it wasn't too cold. This was known to create considerable distraction, as Jane was considered to be attractive in any shape. 

Her unusual blue eyes looked up at him, "I'm so glad you're here"

"Well I am not," Wages' voice conveyed that that was a great understatement. "What possible reason could you have for interrupting my tutelage young mister Super?"

"Peter just came down here to say hello," Jane tried as a measure of conciliation. "I interrupted by running out here to see him. It's been ages since we've seen each other. I was just too excited to wait."

Wages was unimpressed. "Excited or not you are my pupil, and I should hope you value our lessons more than the friendship of this Metis."

Before Jane could react to the not-so-rhetorical rhetorical question slash insult Peter jumped in. "As it happens, Mystic Wages, I had a vision." Sally Wages stopped dead at this. Her look was one of doubt, but she waited to hear more. "Our Mother has instructed me with a quest and I require Jane's help." Jane held her breath. The Mystic's silence became too much for Peter, so he continued. "I think I have to get back into action, but I have something to do for Rat," he was unsure of himself. The vision had been absolute, but now before the unblinking gaze of and Elder he was less sure. "I need Jane's help if I'm going to succeed, so I need to ask you." Now he was truly on thin ice.

"This may take some time, and as such I need to request that Jane be released from your instruction so that she can join my pack." At this Wages jumped.

"But you do not have a pack Knife Skulker Super," she smirked. "In fact you are currently relieved of your post as I recall." Jane clung tighter to him, he knew she was trying to offer support but even her small frame suddenly felt a burden. "Old Snow took you away your status after that little incident."

"I'm better now," he growled. "I'm going to Snow as soon as I'm done here," the statement was a like a weapon, he held it out at the end of his reach, hoping it would keep Wages at bay while he had a chance to regroup. "Rat has shown me what she wants. Soon the other members of my pack will be here and it won't be long before we're in business." With that last he knew for certain that he was ready to face this new phase of his life, it was time to get back to work.

He expected Wages to bicker further, to argue, to claim Jane was indispensable. All she said was: "as you say," and turned on her heel. Peter was truck by the anti-climax, Rat must surely be watching out for him.

"Oooh, Peter!" squealed Jane. "How brave!" If anything she held him even tighter. He began to wonder if she had secretly been lifting weights. He looked down at her. She stared back up at him. They both realized she was still naked. "You go talk to Old Snow," she said as she ducked back into the room she had first come out of. "Mystic Wages will no doubt have some last things to tell me, and I need to say some goodbyes, but I'll meet you out by the door." She had disappeared. 

He was bewildered, yet he had faced down an Elder. Now he was about to embark on a quest with Jane, but first he reminded himself, he had to get his rig back. He shifted down onto four paws and ran to find Snow. It was time for him to skulk again.      


	3. Chapter Two

Chapter Two: Knives and Owners

            Old Snow could be hard to find, harder to see. As the head of the Knife Skulkers he was the chief administrator of Ratkin law. Which could be simply paraphrased as plain, unvarnished justice. Where a crime was committed a Knife Skulker would punish someone. Sometimes it was fair, sometimes it was right, but it was always just. That was the law of the Nest. 

            The point was that Old Snow could be difficult to find for any but one of his Skulkers. Peter was a Skulker, but he had been off duty, for over a week, and of little use for almost as long before that. He reasoned the best way to find Snow was find another Knife Skulker and have them tell him. Easier said than done.

            The Nest was huge, and Knife Skulkers were practiced at stealth. Still this was home, and one or two might be easily found. He started in the low tunnels, a maze of tiny rat sized passages that was often used as meeting grounds. No one there knew where anyone he wanted to see was. Somewhere above this, in what passed for a food storage area in Red Hill, he finally found someone who could help him. 

            Danny Throws-Well was a few years older than him, had more experience, but resented the speed with which Peter had achieved his position. As such he was constantly derogatory, by all rights Peter should have put him in his place years ago, but he hadn't. The reasoning for this was simple: Danny was good. If Peter called him out, or even took him to a dark tunnel and beat the stuffing out of him, he would lose a valuable Skulker. Peter didn't want to weaken Red Hill. He wanted it to last forever.

            "Hey Super!" Danny was up and going. "Shouldn't you be in bed, or watching soaps or something?" He was officially in trouble. Peter had had enough. 

            One minute Danny was looking at Peter's tiny rat form, no bigger than a kitten. The next Peter was a seven-foot tall monster who had his forearm across Danny's neck and was holding him against the wall.

            "Wrong day, Throws-Well!" Peter's tone was full of rage, but he was in complete control. He hoped this show of strength might result in Danny finally taking his place. "I'm back and if you don't watch out I'll staple you to this wall and leave you to starve!"

            Danny tried to shift from human to his own war form, but the pressure on his neck only increased. He was trapped. "Ok, ok," he gasped. "I'm sorry, you can have it!" Peter released him and he crumpled to the ground.

            Peter knew better to turn his back on a rat, even a human born one like Danny. So it was no surprised when Danny shifted and came after him like a pit bull. Pit Bulls, no matter their size, however, did not last long in a fight with Peter Super. He merely stepped out of the way and used Danny's own momentum to throw him into the other wall.

            "You seem to be having a problem with the architecture tonight Throws-Well. As much as I'd love to stick around and see you resolve it, I just need one thing from you and I'll be off." 

            "What would that be?" said a weak voice from under the pile of detritus where Danny had landed. 

            "Where's Snow tonight?" 

            "That's it?"

            "One little answer and I'll be out of your way," Peter felt no need to press his new supremacy.

            "Ok, Elder Snow is down in Rundown, it shouldn't be hard to find him." Danny was glad to share the info. He only wanted Peter far from him at the moment.

            Peter was on his way out before Danny looked up from the floor. Danny got up and looked over at a bystander. "I'm glad he's on our side," he gently patted his sore ribs. "That's all I have to say about it."

            Rundown fitted its name. No one in Red Hill did repairs unless they absolutely had to, so Rundown had gradually fallen apart. It was the oldest section of the Nest. The expanding population had quickly outgrown it. There wasn't enough water, and it was too far from any decent sources of food. It had been the start of what was now a thriving colony, but rats were not overly sentimental in this day and age. You stayed on task, or you got dead. 

            It wasn't hard to find Snow there. He moved around but always made his presence known over a small area. He was like a speed trap. The only place Rats would go out of their way to obey minor laws. A young Skulker tried to challenge him, still hopped up after the run in with Danny he almost broke the kid's arm. One of the Skulkers that knew him waved him by, Snow was his mentor, and he didn't need an appointment. 

            He made his way to Old Snow and rolled onto his back, a sign of submission. "Get up Peter," said the gruff old man. "I've know you too long for that."

            Peter rolled over and looked his mentor in the eyes. They were dark and piercing, they seemed to root out fault like no other. Even the stern gaze of rat mothers couldn't prompt confessions like Old Snow. The white hair that gave him his name was uncombed as usual, but for some reason he was wearing a tweed jacket. Peter could hardly keep from laughing.

            "Wipe that grin off your snout! It was a gift," he seemed to be trying to justify it.

            "From whom might I ask?" chattered Peter.

            "None of your cheek!" said Old Snow half-joking. "A fine and distinguished lady, though it seems you are here for a reason other than to mock an old man."

            "Not so old yet," said Peter in whuffling and scratches. "You could still complete a dozen contracts in a night," referring to Old Snow's legendary record. 

            "Don't you forget it, not even you've beaten that one yet, hotshot." Old Snow paused for a moment. Peter noticed he sometimes did this. When asked about it Snow would pretend to be senile, and try to stab the offending questioner. "But again we stray from our topic. Or were you planning on stealing Mystic Wage's best pupil as well as my own?"

            Peter grew uncomfortable at the compliment, and more so because Old Snow already knew what had happened. "I guess I had better make it official," with that he shifted into the form of a human again. His clothes were still with him. He bowed his head until his horns touched the floor. "I request that my weapons be returned to me, I am fit to return to duty." 

            "But."

            "But, I won't be able to return to active duty. I have a mission to complete first. I don't know how long it'll take," with that he looked up. 

            Old Snow peered at him, those judgment eyes examining his soul. "So I gather. I accept your petition, but you must prove yourself fit to serve our Mother again," he motioned to one of the Knife Skulkers Sitting quietly by the door. "Fetch Peter's rig." The boy ran off. "What do you know," his tome was more familiar, fatherly.

            "She showed me a way to help them, so I won't have to worry," Peter felt good telling Snow this. Snow had taken risks training him personally, he was the closest thing to a father Peter would know. "Jane and I have to go get all the people I'll need. They'll all be in town, so I won't be far." 

            "And how are you feeling?"

            "I'm ready. This is a holy cause, I won't fail," he said in a determined voice.

            "Good," said Old Snow. "You're about to have your first test." At that moment the neophyte sent to bring his rig returned. The leather harness was put in his hands.

            It had been a gift from Snow on successful completion of his first punishment. He remembered how excited he had been that night. He slid his sweatshirt off, no mean feat considering his horns. He then buckled the modified gun harness over his stained t-shirt. Now it held the tools of his trade, his knives, and a few other things. He pulled a knife from its sheath. It was mirror clean and razor sharp. Double-edged and six inches of straight steel, it had served justice more than a few times. It was one of the few things he had owned new. The previous owner had barely had a chance to miss it. He switched hands with a simple toss, trying not to get to fancy after being idle for so long. Then a plain roll put the handle on the back of his proper hand. He held his arm out at full length and couldn't help but recall the last time he had performed this test. His hand had shaken, the blade had fallen, and as proof of his unfitness it had almost sliced into his foot.

            Now he was solid as ever, his eyes near glowed with satisfaction. This time, he thought, nothing can hold me back. "Good to have you back son," said Old Snow with more than a measure of pride. "Now get out of here before I put a contract on you myself." 

            He turned and ran towards the night, he had people to meet. 


	4. Chapter Three

Chapter Three: Walking And Fighting

            Peter didn't find Jane near the exit, but he was far from worried. Jane had a sense of distance that was out of proportion to her own size. This was compounded by her habit of sometimes seeing things in terms of the near Umbra. This closest part of the spirit world could be spatially confusing, warping distances. To her "just over there" could be miles away.       

            He sniffed around for a while and found her in an alley a few blocks away. She was sitting on the ground squeaking to an injured rat. 

            "Just keep off it for a few days," she said in the language of her birth. The small rat tried to walk on the leg in question. It now sported a tiny bandage. The rat squeaked to her and ran off. "You're welcome," she said as it disappeared into the recesses of the alley.

            She stood up and turned on Peter. Before he could say a thing she had him in another of her pint sized pincer hugs. "Peter! I'm so happy you're better," her tone left little room for argument. He began to wonder how seriously his behavior had concerned her. "And now we're going on a mission, a secret mission!"

            "It's not exactly secret," he tried to curb her enthusiasm. "Rat showed me what I could do to right the biggest injustice of all." They began to walk through the dark streets. His hooded form towered over her. He noticed that she had changed clothes again. 

            Jane's wardrobe was in a constant state of evolution. Whatever she found something that she thought was pretty she would wear it, usually leaving some other garment behind. To her it was an exchange. If she found something in a garbage can or charity box she left a piece of her clothes behind. To accent this she, in the style of Shadow Seers everywhere, clipped, sewed, taped, or pinned anything she felt was important to her outfit. They did this because they felt the mundane could be of spectacular beauty and significance, often despite the opinion of others. 

            At the moment she was sporting black leggings with the feet torn out and no shoes. She was wearing some deeply pink and offensive long-sleeved shirt under a black minidress that had seen better days. From her ears hung earrings made from bottle caps and nails. All over this ensemble gum wrappers and bits of glass had been affixed, along with a crushed pop can that she wore over her heart like a brooch. 

The image was made more unusual by the wooden staff she carried that was as tall as she was. She had found it one day floating down a sewer stream, she claimed it was a holy weapon, but Peter had never witnessed anything special about it.

Topping it all off was her backpack. It was a faded plastic Barbie backpack. Though he had carried it more than a few times, he had never been allowed to see into it. She claimed it was "a lady's domain." She carried first aid supplies and other things of use, but it was also the source of many of her odder adornments. No matter what she wore or how filthy it was she was a girl or rat of considerable beauty. Even though she tried to hide it he knew she had received several offers to bear pups. When he pressed her about this duty to the colony she only said she had to wait until she was finished her training, besides, she added, it was her choice 

"So where are we going now?' she asked.

"We have to act fast. Some of the people I need to help me are only going to be in town for a short time." He guided them in another direction.

"How much do you know? What kind of vision was it?"

"Not like any other I've had," he said uncertainly. This was her area of experience. "I saw six of us, and I saw what we were going to do, but I assume the rest of it will come when I need," he looked to her for confirmation.

"Sometimes it works that way," she said comfortingly. "But it's hard to say. Are you sure you're ready to start this? You were pretty shaken up."

He lifted up his sweater a little, displaying a strap of his rig. "It's been a while since I've been this certain."

"Yes, I see that now." She gestured vaguely at the empty street around them. "They can all see it. Great energy is inside you now." He glanced about and saw no one, leaving him to assume she was looking at the spirits she was so close to.

The two walked down the sidewalk in silence for some time. At times she would mutter to herself, but Peter knew she was talking to things he couldn't see. He knew that she was in constant conversation with other beings. She was seldom alone, even in a locked room. The few times when no one was about she was even then in company. All Ratkin heard the voice of Rat calling to them when they thrashed in the fevers of the Birthing Plague. For some it never stopped, most became Twitchers. He shuddered at the thought of Jane as a Twitcher. They were in even more dangerous than the Blade Slaves, the Warriors, just as often to themselves as to others. Jane had beaten the odds and chosen to be a Shadow Seer. Spirits had been in touch with her even before her Birthing Plague. This contact had only made her more eager to learn from them. Thus it was that the voice of Rat constantly spoke to her, but she would never share what it told her. Those were secrets, she told him.

He was concerned for her. The vision had shown her with him, but she was no fighter. He was ready to sacrifice himself, but he worried at what might become of her. He had been her protector from the first days. She had, in turn, lavished attention and company on him. He considered her his blood kin, even though they shared no relation other than being children of Rat. Sometimes, he thought, family is what you make of it. 

He stopped her by taking her shoulder and turning to face her. She looked up at him. "Jane I want you to know that I will do my best to make sure you come out of this okay." She started to say something but he steamrolled over it. "Things might get rough, some of us might last 'till the end, but I want you to survive." 

"Oh Peter," her voice gentle and soft. "Peter I love you," she said as tears began to well up in her eyes. She pulled him into a hug.

"I love you too Jane, you've been my little sister and I want you to be okay." Her head buried in his chest began to shake with sobs.

"You don't get it," she said in the midst of sobs. He didn't understand a word.

"So many people tried to put me down," his tone was stern. He had to steel himself against tears. Even so his eyes began to shine with moisture in the depths of his hood. "Even those that tried to help me were condescending, but you were always straight with me." She shook even harder. "But don't cry," he pulled her away from his chest. "We're both gonna get out of this fine." 

She looked up at him with reddened eyes. Her whole face was wet with tears. "What makes you think so?" she asked weakly.

"Because we're family, you and me. That means we look out for each other." She shook her head in what he thought was an uncomprehending way. "I'm not gonna let anything change that." That seemed to make her feel better.

Jane wiped her face and dried her eyes. You're not a pup anymore, she told herself, someday you can tell him, but not now. "Ok," she finally said. "I'm not letting you get away from me yet," she added with conviction.

"That's just fine by me," he agreed.

"Where are we going?" she asked once she had fully regained her composure.

"I remember the name of our first recruit from my vision." The two resumed their way down the street stopping at an intersection. "His name is Frankie Jacks. He was the only person other than you I recognized. I think he lives up in Sakert," naming a much smaller colony up on the northern edge of the city. The traffic was nonexistent. The lights facing them were red.

"I think I heard of him. He's a Warrior," she added after moment of recollection.

"Yeah, we'd better get moving though," he looked around for a clock. He didn't have a watch, but he knew it was very late, or early. "Unless you have bus fare to waste it's going to take a few hours to get there, if we can beat morning traffic." At that he started to cross the street, the light had yet to change.

"Stop!" cried out Jane. She brandished her staff to stop him from stepping off the curb. 

He looked up at the signal and smiled. She had a somewhat simplistic interpretation of human society and how to act in it. He gestured to the empty street. "There's not a car in sight, we can cross at any time."

She seemed disoriented when he spoke. He realized she was listening to somewhere else. "There's something else, someone coming," she added vaguely. "Don't you hear it?"

He could hear the distant wail of a police siren, a barking dog and the 'pling-pling' of the crossing signal. Then he realized that the siren was coming closer, and the sound of the dog was now being drowned out by gunshots. "What the…?" 

Down the street on their left, far in the distance was a car driving towards them at full speed, behind it was a police cruiser in full pursuit. 

"It's him," said Jane.

"What? How do you know?" he said.

"I know," she responded unhelpfully. "We have to jump on."

Peter did a double take. The car was traveling at well over a hundred miles per hour. It was too far away for him to see the colour, but he knew it would soon be a blur on the opposite direction. He turned to face Jane. "We can't do it."

She wasn't listening, mostly because she was folding her clothes into her backpack. She stood naked before him in the cold night. The wail of the siren was much closer to them now. She gave him her staff. He took it mutely. "Only you have to do it," at that she shifted into a normal looking rat. She climbed into the open backpack.

He had no choice but to close it and sling the thing over his shoulder. Staff in hand he looked back to the speeding chase coming towards him. Silently he prayed it would turn away. Pick an intersection, any intersection, any direction, he thought. Sure enough it sped towards him at full speed. It was less than five seconds before it reached him. He tensed every muscle in his body and threw himself at the car, prepared for the pain. The car swerved and almost rolled over but he was now the hood ornament of a high-speed chase. The wind buffeted him and deafened him, the slightest motion of the car threatened to throw him off. He clung to the car with all his might, trying to maintain his presence by surface tension, his knuckles turned white around the staff.

Finally he looked up into the car. Behind the wheel was Frankie Jacks, he seemed to be paying Peter no mind, keeping his full attention on the road ahead of him. Only occasionally did he glance up at the rearview mirror to check on the distance of the police. His upper lip was red with blood from a bloody nose, his right eye was black and there was a blood soaked bandage that had been hastily applied to his palm. It appeared he had been in a fight. 

Frankie looked up into Peter's eyes and said something without missing a beat Peter read his lips. "Oh, hello Peter, out for a stroll?" His smirk made Peter want to twist his head off through the glass. "Uh-oh," his eyes went back to the road. Peter didn't want to look over his shoulder, nor did he have to. The reflection in the windshield clearly showed the police roadblock. This ride was about to end.        


	5. Chapter Four

Chapter Four: Pain and Sleep

Frankie Jacks swore, loudly. No one heard him, as a car traveling at very high velocity makes a lot of noise, even more when it's traveling at high velocity into a police roadblock. Frankie reacted poorly, his natural inclination was to drive through the police cars blocking the road, but because of speed he was doing this already, so after he finished swearing he hit the steering wheel a few times. 

Peter Super was used to this kind of thing. Not that he was often on the hood of speeding vehicles, but he often had to react to dangerous situations not of his own making. Though he greatly preferred it when other people failed to react to dangerous situations of his making. 

Peter needed more time to act, so he sped up. The world seemed to slow down, he could watch Frankie's paroxysms of rage inside the car, and he could see policemen diving for cover in the reflection of the windscreen. He could even feel Jane moving about in the silly pink backpack over his shoulder. He tightened his grip on Jane's staff and cloaked himself in darkness. To the officers watching it would look as though he and Frankie had disappeared, but most were now diving behind something stiff and unlikely to come into contact with a racing car. Knowing he was running out of time, he put his hand through the glass and grabbed Frankie by the throat. Frankie hardly had time to protest as the stolen car made contact with the incredibly stationary police cruiser. The rest is physics. 

The exploding car covered the sound of two bodies hitting the pavement on the other side of the police line. The officers were busy trying to put out the fire. They hardly noticed the shattered windshield some distance away. It goes without saying that they never say the limping giant rat with a staff being helped away by a man in a leather jacket, but that's only because they were still invisible. 

"Peter, you are one fun guy to party with!" laughed Frankie Jacks. "That was great, right out from under their noses." He laughed again.

Peter remained silent. It was hard walking on shattered legs, but not so hard as all that. The staff was keeping him up on his left, and Frankie was holding him on the right. The lacerations down his right arm from the glass were already beginning to heal. It was only a matter of time before he could move at full speed again. Peter, like all rats, was tough as they came and harder to kill, but even after shifting into his native form he had taken more than his share of injuries from the fall. Frankie had landed on top of him.

"Next time I go out for a night of fun, you can come with me," he laughed again. Peter was beginning to wonder if Frankie was high. "I bet you come in handy in all kinds of dangerous situations. I mean, I can hold my own when it comes to a fight, no mistake. But that thing back there was brilliant. I was ready to fight my way out of that, maybe kill a few of them, but you never…"

"Frankie," Peter weakly interrupted. 

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

"Oh, ok." After that they walked in silence for a few minutes, trying to put some distance between them and the scene of the crime. Peter's steps grew more sure every passing minute, but his attitude had yet to improve. 

"Um, I don't mean to bug you," said Frankie uncertainly.

"Good instincts Frankie."

"But your Barbie Backpack is moving,"

"Oh… oops, better let her out," said Peter.

Frankie reached behind Peter and opened the zipper, revealing the mildly peeved Jane, who began to scream an impressive stream of rat expletives.

"Sorry miss," apologized Frankie. "No, it was my fault. I'm sorry, but after the fight how was I to know they would call the cops 'cause I took their car." Jane had yet to pause in her tirade. Peter was glad she had yet to turn to him. "No, it was my fault, Peter saved us all." Frankie's usual joviality was dimmed in the way of a child being scolded. "Everything will be fine, Peter's wounds will be okay in just a minute." Peter instantly regretted the words the moment they came out of Frankie's mouth.

Jane let out a frightened squeak and instantly ran to the ground where she shifted to human form. "Peter, stop!" she commanded, and he was loath to disobey. "Sit down, let me look at your wounds."

"We don't have time, we have to get away from here. I'll be fine in just a minute, and we need to keep moving." He tried to push on, but without Frankie's support he was still too weak.

"Fine my tail!" she swore. "Sit down on that curb this instant. It would be just what you deserve if your bones heal crooked!" He could not disobey her in this state, so he did so. She began to root through her backpack for something. 

"And a fine tail it is too," commented Frankie. Jane and Peter instantly remembered she was still naked.

"Haven't you ever seen a rat naked before?" she asked.

"Not recently, and I'm man enough to admit, not one so pretty." Frankie was trying to be gallant, but his eyes kept drifting back to Jane's form. She knelt over her bag, offering a more than ample view of her behind. 

"Why don't you go over there and get dressed Jane," growled Peter, his eyes never leaving Frankie. 

"You just said we don't have time. I have to look at your legs, and we need to get out of here, you said so yourself. I can change and catch up to you guys after I'm done." She would brook no disagreement. "Besides, Frankie is a gentleman, and he needs to go over there and stand guard." Frankie said nothing. "Right Frankie?"

Frankie snapped out of his daydream at once. "Yeah, yeah, exactly Miss Classic," suddenly getting the drift. He wandered a short distance away. At first he thought he might have a chance with Jane, she was as fine a rat as was made, he thought to himself, but Peter was shooting venom at him just for looking. He made a show of looking the other way and then snuck a peek behind him. 

Peter and Jane were arguing as she felt his legs. He had shifted to his human shape, making his horns even more noticeable. Wonder what she sees in him, he thought. She tugged his hood up over them and Frankie quickly resumed his 'guard duty' assuming the check up was almost over. 

Jane beckoned him over. Peter got to his feet with help of the staff. "You two go ahead, and I'll catch up in a second," said Jane as she ducked into the nearest alley. Frankie took Peter's right arm over his shoulder and they began to walk again. Frankie could feel the tension in Peter. It was time to test the waters 

"Sorry about that Peter."

"Whatever," answered Peter gruffly.

"No, I'm, uh, wicked grateful for you saving me." He said, mocking the Boston accent, but trying to communicate sincerity as well.

"Well, you're welcome." He was still wary, but he remembered that he would need Frankie's help. He cracked a smile, "But don't make fun of my accent again." The two broke into laughs.

"It was a pretty bad imitation," he agreed. "And I am sorry about Jane, I never would have said anything if I had known she was your girl." He waited for the telling reaction.

Peter was silent for a moment and then said, "Jane is my little sister."

"Oh"

"If she's interested in you she'll let you know, but she she's waiting for the right time, I think"

"That's cool, thanks for the heads up. In the future I'll keep my eyes to myself."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far," announced Jane playfully from right behind them. They both jumped and tried to regain their composure. "Hate to interrupt your 'guy moment' but looking is fine, just don't think that gives you touching privileges. I like looking at guys, and I'd like to think guys like looking at me, but the last person who thought he could grab something of mine that wasn't his… well… what exactly did happen to old Moe anyway?' 

"I believe he's still looking for his fingers, but he found one of his thumbs," answered Peter. Frankie's eyebrows shot up in amazement. He had met some strange people since waking up from his birthing plague in Arizona. Some stranger women, but none as blunt and free as Jane Classic, even for a born rat she was uninhibited.    

"That only leaves six left to find, good for him. I'm sure this time has given him something to think about." At this she laughed wholeheartedly. It was a feminine laugh, but loud and arrogant, brazen and dangerous. Peter struggled to remain silent. It was obvious Jane didn't want Frankie to know he had been the one to remove the offending fingers. He suspected there was a lesson for both he and Frankie in Jane's words, but could not quite figure out what she was trying to say with her unusual behaviour. 

"Um, yeah, anyway," said Frankie when she had finally trailed off. "Where are we going now?" He was suddenly much more uncertain of himself and his companions. 

It was Jane who took up the question. "Peter's apartment isn't too far from here, we can make it there in just a few minutes. What do you say to that Peter?"

"Sounds good Jane, we can head back to Red Hill after getting some sleep, when I'm one hundred percent we can decide what do after that." With those words Jane slipped under his left arm and took up her staff. The three of them traveled in silence for the few short blocks to Peter's apartment building. 

  The place was in a horrible neighbourhood. It rang out with cries and shouts of babies and arguing couples, even at this time of morning. It was dilapidated and ill maintained. There was police tape visible from one of the windows. In short: it was a slum.

"Nice place Peter, come here often?" said Frankie sardonically.

"Not really, I use it as a back-up, but when I come here it feels a little like home," he answered with sincerity. 

They made their way in past the broken front door and proceeded up the stairs, as the elevator was in a permanent state of disrepair. No sane person would use it if ever it were deemed to be usable anyway. Thankfully Peter's injuries were almost vanished, Frankie's few minor cuts and scrapes long gone, but both were fairly tired. The procession up the nine flights of steps proceeded steadily but with much heavy breathing. The few people they met quickly averted their eyes and made their way past the ragged trio as quickly as possible. One small child made a show of pointing at Peter and announcing him to his parents, the adults pulled their child onwards to daycare with dull eyes. 

"I barely noticed before," said Peter in a shallow voice. The reality of these people's lives was hitting him like never before, he was once again faced with how poverty had weakened and crushed these people. Frankie didn't seem to hear, but Jane murmured, "Soon." 

They arrived at the floor and came to the door. The hallway was dark and dirty, were they any other three people they might have felt fear standing there while Jane got the key from her backpack and turned it in the lock. 

The inside was, if anything, worse than the outside. It was clear that Peter had not bothered to redecorate or even clean up much after the previous tenants had been evicted. What little furniture there was was tattered and abused almost beyond use, even for rats, who mostly shopped in garbage bins. Squalid was a kind way of putting it. 

"Wow Peter, what's the rent in a place like this?" said Frankie in a tone that lacked little from mockery. 

"I never asked," was his reply as he limped off towards a back room. The place was small, the front was a living room and kitchen combined, separated only by a rickety counter. There were three doors in the back. Frankie supposed they led to bedrooms and a bathroom. 

Frankie sat down on an ugly couch that smelled of mildew in the living room. Before it sat a tiny television that looked ancient and had a bent wire coat hanger for an antenna. Good, he thought, he had never much liked TV, even before… before…it had happened.

Jane was busying herself in what passed for the kitchen. "He really doesn't come here often, maybe once a month," she shouted from within one of the low cupboards. "That's why there's so little food here," but I usually come by every once and awhile and put some cans and stuff in here." She stood up proudly holding two large tins of beans. She began to hunt around for a can opener. 

"So what's the deal," asked Frankie. "Is this his bachelor pad? His little home away from the nest?" His tone managed to convey some lewdness in this concept. 

Jane frowned, but didn't dwell on the issue. She continued to search the drawers as she spoke. "Peter once took care of someone who was causing trouble in this building." 

She found the wayward device, and launched into the cans with some ferocity. It seemed to her that the thing moved every time she was here. "He did it almost by accident, but the landlord and some of the people noticed. They asked him for help, he didn't much care for them then, but he arranged to get rid of the worst of the scum around here and in exchange they let him have this little place for free." She finished opening the cans and began to hunt around for a saucepan. 

"Now he comes down here every once and a while and looks after the worst of the lot for them. The drug dealers and the extortionists, that kind of that thing." She found the saucepan and turned to the stove.

"In the past he never really cared about these people, but something happened recently to change his view of things." She put the beans over heat and made her way over to where Frankie on the couch. "That's why you're here," she announced in an overly girlish and enthusiastic way. It suddenly made him nervous. She was sitting quite near him and he was suddenly conscious of how many times a day he used his fingers. 

"Yeah, about that," he tried, and failed to hide his sudden anxiety. "I'm really grateful you two came out of nowhere to help me out. I'm not even certain how it is that you knew it was me in the car."

            Jane drew her feet up under her so she was now perched beside him on her knees. He was suddenly painfully aware of how pretty she was, even at the same time he began to contemplate the litter attached to her various tattered clothes. "Peter has rarely in the past been affected by the words of Our Mother," her tone left no uncertainty that they were talking about the Rat Incarna, She Who Brought The Birthing Plague herself. "But now he has received a plan, instructions, for something She wants him to do. I don't know much more than what he tells me, but the spirits around us tell me everything they know, and now they're telling me big things are in store for Peter."

            Frankie was growing more uncomfortable, no longer noticing Jane's appearance but coming to the realization that she was a Shadow Seer, and that unseen forces were constantly in conversation with her. "What does that have to do with me?" he asked meekly.

            "I look after Peter, keep him out of trouble, but he needs more than my help if this plan, this quest, is going to succeed. Just as you were coming down the street in that stolen car we were leaving for Sakert to go find you." Frankie winced at the name of his current Nest. "We were destined to meet, maybe She sent you down just the right streets to run into us, but when I saw the car I was told who was in it. That you were Frankie Jacks, just the person we needed to meet." 

"You see, I have been given instructions on what to do," Peter was just behind them. His omnipresent hood pulled back, fully exposing his symmetrically curving horns, they came down to point at the tip of his chin. In the poor light all his features, that were rat like even in this, his human form, seemed knife edged. His eyes suddenly burned with an intensity Frankie had not seen in even his moment of blurring action earlier that night.    Frankie suddenly needed to reassure himself his gun was still in his belt, but had to force his hand to stillness, for fear of what the action might prompt Jane and Peter to do. 

            Peter continued without noticing the internal struggle in Frankie. "I thought humans were our enemies, and they are, but if we can help them some, they could be taken off the playing field. They could be placed out of the reach of our true enemy: the Weaver. You've fought it just as I have. You know it wants to enslave us all. I have been shown a way to strike back at it and clear the board of some of those poor human pawns."

            "What exactly are you going to do?" was all Frankie could say. He was beginning to see it too. The misty form of something that needed doing. It had not been chance that had sent him headlong down just that street.

            "I'm going to rob the biggest financial institution in New England. And I need your help." The last was as much a question as a statement.

            "What's in it for me?" said Frankie. Fighting the tendrils of obligation he felt growing in his mind.

            "An even share of the loot. It's too soon to say how much we'll get, but you're certain to get at least a million, if you live."

            The warning at the end was not enough to deter him. Destiny and cash were two very strong arguments in Frankie's mind. Two of the strongest, but he refused to consider which might win out. "Then count me in. What do you need me to do?"

            "Glad to hear it, I knew you would. As a Warrior your skills will come in very handy, but for now eating will do." At that Jane snapped to her senses. Frankie had completely lost track of her, she hadn't moved the entire time Peter and he had been talking. She had been raptly focused on Peter but now she was running to the kitchen to check on their meager meal. From the smell it was ready. 

            All Frankie could think was, what have I gotten myself into?           


	6. Chapter Five

 Chapter Five

      Frankie woke to the bizarre sight of Jane and Peter playing house. The three had bedded down that morning in the decrepit little apartment. Peter had forced Jane to take the master bedroom, and would have put himself on the dirty little couch. Had Jane not insisted he was too injured Frankie would have had the other bedroom, but it really didn't matter to him. Instead Frankie had slept on the couch and Peter had taken the bare mattress on the floor of the smaller room.

      Now the two were in the equally small bathroom. Frankie had to laugh as the petite Jane ordered the tall, horned Peter around while checking his wounds. The cuts and bruises had healed almost instantly, as had Frankie's own. The torn ligaments and broken bones had taken longer but would leave no lasting trace. Frankie was unconcerned, and besides, he really thought Jane fussing over it was funny.

      He got up to take a better look. Through the bathroom window he could they had slept the day away. It was night again. Peter sat on the edge of the rust rimmed bathtub, his legs stretched out before him. Jane was one her knees, checking every inch of his legs to make sure there was no permanent injury. Peter noticed him immediately, uncomfortable for all the attention, but hardly self-conscious for someone who was naked.

      "Hey Frankie, we'll be done in a second, then you can shower and we have to go," he said.

      "Sure thing," replied Frankie nonchalantly. He padded out to the kitchen. He had decided to look in the fridge for something to eat. The ancient Frigidaire was a sickly yellow, it groaned horribly. He lurched it open to reveal it had no light and lukewarm air. More importantly, it had no food. But something did catch his interest. The drawer in the bottom yielded two black handguns. He picked one up. It was a perfectly oiled Colt NC161 with silencer, the exact mate of the other. He looked over his shoulder to find his coat, which held his own gun, bur instead found the threateningly tall Peter Super.

      "Anything good?" he asked with a hint of menace. Peter stood coolly, now wearing his dark jeans.

      "Ah, Peter! Just admiring your piece, real pro stuff, that's for sure." Peter gently took the gun from his hand. He bent down to the drawer and drew out a clip from its depths. "Sometimes, in my line of work, you have to back up your judgment with firepower." The magazine slammed home and Peter chambered a round. "Fairly often actually." He handed the loaded gun to Frankie.

      "You're a Skulker?" he asked, taking the gun in hand.

      "Such is my privilege," he said profoundly. "Rat has entrusted me with the Law. I have killed those who have broken faith. I have punished those who have committed injustices. This and more I have done for years. Does any of this bother you?"

      "No, no, I'm cool with the Skulkers," he answered a tad nervously. "I mean, I've had my moments, but by and large I toe the line. I'm just a grunt for Our Mother's army," he finished more certainly.  

      "Good I'm glad to hear that. Because I need you, and I think I can trust you, and I don't know how soon our lives will be on the line here." He took the gun back, ejected the mag. He put the gun back in the drawer after ejecting the chambered bullet. 

      "I want you and Jane to go back to the Hill, I'm going to talk to a prospect." He squeezed the bullet back into the magazine clip and put it away as well. "You can get something fresh to eat there."

       "Sure sounds good," with that Frankie headed back towards the bathroom. "Morning Jane," he said passing her as he went into the tiny bathroom and shut the door.

      "Hiya Frankie," she greeted him at the same time, and continued on to where Peter Stood. "Did I just hear you say you want to on without you?"

      "Yes," was all he said as he went to go get dressed.

She followed him into the tiny bedroom. "Why is that?" she asked very pointedly. She was only barely concealing her contempt for Peter's decision.

"It might be dangerous," he answered as he pulled on his shirt. This was hardly sufficient reason to Jane's mind, she promptly said so.

"That's no reason to send us away. You need me...Frankie and me there if there's going to be trouble," she argued as he pulled his rig, containing his knives and other tools, on. "You need us to back you up!" she finished, her voice becoming very shrill.

"Jane I appreciate that, but I'm not certain about this." He pulled on his socks and shoes. "If our boy is jumpy I don't want to spook him."

"But Peter!"

"But nothing Jane! Take Frankie to the Hill, show him around, and introduce him. I'll take care of it and be back before morning." He finished dressing by pulling on his hoodie in silence. Jane stood sullenly leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. They listened to the sound of the shower and Peter got up to go.

"Peter I..." she trailed off.

He stopped on his way to the door.

"... I want you to be careful," she finished lamely.

He smiled and pulled his hood up over his horns. "I always am," he said confidently.

For a second she felt like crying, but then she reminded herself she had other things to do. She turned towards the bathroom and opened the door. The lock had been broken long before she had even come to this little apartment. She caught Frankie just as he was stepping out of the shower. 

"Oh, hey, sorry, I'll be out in a second," he said as he jumped back behind the stained shower curtain.

"I know, I just need to talk to you."

"Oh, ok," he waited for a second. "Can you pass me my clothes?" he asked uncertainly.

"I guess, but why?" she asked back. "It's just me, you know me." 

"Well, fair's fair," he said under his breath. He jumped out of the shower and began to dress hurriedly. Jane stood and watched him smirkingly. Rodens, who had been born as rats, like her, had little understanding of some human societal norms. She found privacy and public nudity particularly amusing. 

      "Well? Talk if you have something to say!" He said as he pulled up his pants.

      "I need you to tell me if you're really with us on this," she asked levelly.

      "I already told Peter that…" he began, to fill the sink and lather up bar of soap. 

      "Peter left, I'm here now, I need you to tell me why you're doing this so I can know how far we can trust you."

      "Makes sense I guess." He began to shave with Peter's razor.

      "There weren't any Metis in Arizona, but they told me about them. How they were deformed, sterile, some even crazy. When I made my way here I ran into a few, most seemed capable enough. Some were really bitter, you know, but peter is a good guy. Practically risked his life to save my ass before he even knew my name. I don't have anything against Metis. I really don't, not like some older rats I've met. So my point is, Peter knows what he's talking about and he seems able to back it up. So I think I'll follow him, if not for the money, then at least because it'll be fun and I'm not really anything better up at Sakert." With that he finished shaving and started to wash up. "What about you?" 

      "I've been with peter all me life, he watched over me and my litter, he recommended I be infected. I owe him everything, I love him more than my brothers." She said earnestly. 

      "I bet you do," thought Frankie dryly. He estimated Jane's litters would be highly sought after, despite her 'pickiness' she would make a renowned Rat Mother, he had no doubt. The one thing he was uncertain of was whether Peter would raise them. He finished getting dressed. Making sure his pain dagger was in its place at the small of his back.

      The two headed towards, she collected her backpack and staff, and he grabbed his coat. As they headed out the door she asked him: "What were you doing that got the cops down on you last night?"

      He looked to her and grinned devilishly. "Want to do something fun?"


	7. Chapter Six

Chapter Six: The Devil and The Dark

Peter ghosted through the alleys of the night. He knew the neighbourhood he was headed for, and had a rough picture of the house he wanted to find. As he came closer to events, he could remember more and more of his vision, but he had not the slightest idea who he was going to see.  


This was an old neighbourhood. Once it had been good; now it was sinking into slums. The elderly and the criminal occupied the Victorian houses. More than a few were surrounded by the human detritus that went along with the drug industry. Most people preferred to believe such places didn't exist, but most people didn't have to live there.  


Periodically the police might make token efforts in the area, but they were never seen after nightfall. Here, humans exploited and abused humans because they, in turn, were being abused by others. Peter had little sympathy for these. Despite his newfound concern for the urban poor, he felt little impetus to act in such localities. The victims were often just as bad as the victimizers.   


It was then that Peter realized he was being followed. A tall man in a hoodie was hardly noticeable in this kind of place, but as Peter focused his hearing, he was certain that a group was coming up behind him. He turned a corner in the hope that they would continue on past, but with wide streets and wider yards there was little hope of concealment unless he wandered into the no man's land behind the houses.  


He stopped for a second and caught a glimpse of his pursuers. Three young men in dark attire, they were far from raucous "gangstahs" native to the area, and this worried him. Rat had many enemies, and any one of them could be on his tail this night. He stepped on and checked his weaponry. He was prepared for a fight.  


Heading further down the side street he could tell the silent trio was still behind him. He knew that if he ran, they would give chase, but found it unlikely they would catch him. He could easily disappear into the shadows between the tall, rotten houses, but first he wanted to find out what these three had in mind. This would require getting closer to them, possibly engaging them in a fight. Neither option thrilled him, and that left only stealth. He considered dashing into the darkness, where he could cover himself in shadow, or perhaps shift down to a smaller size. Instead he decided to push on ahead, lose them at the next corner and climb a lamppost. The broken street lamps provided no illumination, but they granted eager access to one such as him.   


He broke into a run and tore around the corner, then leaped, and, grabbing onto the nearest post, he heaved himself the rest of the way to the top. So long as his pursuers didn't get too far away, they would have little chance of spotting him.  
  


The three men were not far behind. They came around the corner and skidded to a halt. They began to argue over whose fault it had been that he had gotten away. After about a minute of useless finger pointing one of them finally established order.  
  


"Shut up! Shut up! We don't have time. He could be anywhere here. A.D., you take that side," he pointed to the opposite side of the street. "Jone-Z, head in there," he pointed into the dark of the nearby houses. "I'll head down that way," down the street, "Holler if you see anything." The three went on their way.  
  


"Well," Peter though, "Mister Z and I have a date, shame to cancel now." He jumped down from the post and hurried into the darkness, where his quarry had gone. Chasing him.  
  


Careful not to make a sound, he waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the deeper darkness. He could hear the man moving about to his left. He was heading down the rows of houses, parallel to the street. It was clear to Peter these men were not wolves, or they would be tracking him by smell, not fumbling in the dark like this.   
  


Peter snuck up behind his target, which was stumbling through the dark with a drawn gun. "Sloppy," thought Peter. Then he decided to share this opinion with Mister Z.   
  


"What are you going to shoot if you can't see?" he asked just behind the young man's right shoulder. He had to cluck as Jone-Z spun around, prepared to do grievous harm to whosoever was peeping over his shoulder. Peter reached out and easily grabbed the gun from his opponent's hand.  
  


"Hmm. A Derringer X/O. Expensive." Quick as a wink, Peter ejected the mag and pocketed it. His disarmed foe was starring, aghast. He was about to draw breath to scream but Peter was still a few steps ahead. He hauled back and sucker punched the man as hard as he could in the stomach, robbing him of breath, making any sound above a gasp impossible.   
  


Jone-Z clutched his stomach and almost fell forward as he tried to gather his faculties and wind. But Peter was far from finished. He kneed the poor guy in the face, pulling him upright. Then he pistol-whipped the man with his own gun. This spun him around and he finally dropped to the ground.  
  


Looking down on his thoroughly battered foe in the weeds, Peter shook his head. "Poor Jone-Z went into the dark. Will he ever come back?" he whispered. The groaning man was about to get up. Peter ejected the lone bullet in the gun, caught it, and tossed both into the darkened bushes. Then Peter sat down on the man's back and pulled his arms behind his back and towards his head in an incredibly painful way. It was a hold Peter had used with success on rats far more lithe than this wayward soul.   
  


"Make a sound louder than a whisper and I'll dislocate both your arms Jone-Z," he pushed. Just a little, to underscore the point. "Say you understand me."  
  


"Yeah, yeah," he rasped, trying to pitch his voice low and keep from screaming.   
  


"Excellent, that means you and I are going to get along. I only want to know what you're looking for and why."   
  


"Boss wanted us to pick up some guy, so we went out to get him," Jone-Z said.  
  


"And how did 'Boss' know he wanted to talk to this guy?" asked Peter.  
  


"Dunno, Lamarr just came down and said we were going out to get someone," he answered.  
It was then that a call came from the street. "Jone-Z, where are you?"  
  


"Lamarr! He's over here! He's got..." the rest of the shout was converted to a scream that faded to silence as Jone-Z lost consciousness.   
  


"Enjoy the next few weeks with two slings," whispered Peter to his sleeping victim. He then jumped up and prepared himself for Lamarr's arrival.   
  


Lamarr was a thug. Smarter than some, but he was still a thug nonetheless. He ran down the wide gap between the Victorian houses into the darkness, expecting uncounted horrors. Going from the half-lit street to the shadowy backyards left him sightless. The first thing he saw was the ground as he tripped over the unconscious body of Jone-Z  
  


Peter jumped down from the first story balcony roof and pulled the fallen gangster's arms back like he had the first, but the man refused to let go of his gun. Peter was about to step on his neck and solve the issue when the unexpected happened.   
  


Lamarr had the build of a street thug that ruled not so much by brains or brawn, but by a violent temper and a willingness to do others harm. This translated into him being fast but not especially muscular. Nonetheless he pulled his arms away from Peter by sheer strength and hauled himself to his feet. He swung around, and fired.   
  


The noise and muzzle flare blinded and deafened them both. Peter had danced back and aside, unsure of how the situation was evolving. He felt fairly certain he had not been hit, but he felt stunned by the sudden reversal of situations. His senses were much sharper than the human's, so his shock from the gunfire had been greater, and he was unsure of where his opponent now stood. Peter knew he had to strike before the gangster could locate him and open fire with greater effect, so he threw a wild punch about head level and but felt only air.  
  


Peter was still unwilling to up the ante and reveal his larger form. With sparks still dancing in his eyes, he knew he had to disarm Lamarr quickly. Peter's horns were curving affairs that came down from his temples towards his chin. They framed his face and had, on occasion, saved his head from a side impact. They did not project forwards in any menacing way, but because of the way they were anchored to his skull he did have a far more solid forehead than most.   
So Peter lunged forwards in the hopes of finding something soft and cerebral in front of him. By some chance, his head butt made contact with Lamarr's face, causing the man to swear angrily. 

Lamarr reeled backwards under this latest assault but swiftly recovered. Peter hopped forward in an attempt to grab the gun but the gangster was fighting him for it.   
  


The two fell to the ground as Peter tried to wrestle the gun away from his opponent. The man was exceptionally strong. Under normal circumstances the fight should not have lasted as long as it had, but Peter was unable to gain any advantage over his enemy. The two struggled against one another, grunting and swearing in the grass.   
  


As they rolled about Peter caught a glimpse of the third gangster dragging the downed man away. He knew he had to finish this quickly or risk reinforcements arriving. Peter could end the struggle in a second by shifting to his war form but he was still reticent to expose himself and risk drawing attention to the Ratkin.  
  


It was then that a crash drew the focus of both combatants towards the house whose backyard they were in. Their tussle had left them squarely in front of the back door, which had just been thrown open.   
  


Peter could see a silhouette standing in the lighted doorway. The entire ground floor was now brightly lit up. Peter has allowed his attention to wander too much and Lamarr used the opportunity to flip Peter over his head. The gunman quickly jumped to his feet and pointed his weapon at the floored Peter.  
  


But if Peter noticed too much, Lamarr noticed too little. Beyond Peter the person standing in the bright doorway was holding an AK-47. The riffle made surprisingly little noise and so did Lamarr as the first few bullets hit him. He sunk to the ground.  
  


Peter rolled over on his stomach and looked towards his rescuer. The first thing that hit him was the female shape of the gun wielding shadow. Even concealed in the contrasting brightness and shrouded in what appeared to be some kind of long plastic apron, those curves and statuesque legs could never quite be hidden. The second thing that hit him was a powerful odour coming from the open door. It was a chemical smell that struck fear in him. The last time he had smelled it was when, as a child, the Colony had been preparing for war. The Warriors had gleefully begun their apocalyptic machinations. It was the smell of homemade TNT. Bathtub explosives, and lots of it.  
  


When the muffled gunfire came to an end the woman called out, "Who the Hell's out there?!" She had a commanding tone that was used to being obeyed.  
Peter looked over his shoulder to see he was alone. The injured human had somehow fled the scene. He glanced back to the nameless woman and noticed the soda can silencer and her long blond hair. He decided he had overstayed his welcome. His clothing was disarrayed so he made sure his hood was still in place. He got to his feet slowly with his hands over his head.  
  


"Now come over here slowly," she ordered, but instead he made a break for it. He jumped over the fence at the rear of the yard and didn't stop until he was five blocks distant. The increasingly loud sound of gunfire echoed in the air the entire time.  
  


Back in the dilapidated Victorian house, Victoria Wallace, also know as Victoria Clothed-in-Pain, crushed the burnt remains of her makeshift silencer. "So that was Peter Super," she said to no one in particular. "Well, if Knife Skulkers want to play in my garden, they'd best be careful." She replaced the clip in the rifle with a fresh one and put it back in the umbrella can by the door.  
"Yes," she said, still talking to herself as she descended to the basement. "I've got things ready." The rows of full bathtubs spoke mute testament to her claim. 


End file.
